


The Goddamn Miracle of Life

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Genderswap, Plot What Plot, Pregnancy, This Is STUPID, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spades Slick genderbend in which Slick and Sleuth have sex, and a couple weeks later Slick's expertly-tailored clothes stop fitting right. Things go downhill from there.</p><p>An AU crackfic rom-com of sex, traitorous physiology and eventually babies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. End Love

**Author's Note:**

> I saw genderbent Slick on tumblr and decided I must do something to ruin it for everybody.

Problem Sleuth isn’t really your type of guy. And by that you mean, Problem Sleuth is a guy, and while typically you couldn’t care less about guys, you’ve had a little bit (a lot) to drink and he was across the bar and he admittedly isn’t terrible looking. That, and you know for a fact the man can take a few knives to the ribs before he gets fed up with you.

Your name is Spades Slick, and you’re hooking up with a guy who’s been steadfastly pursuing you, patiently and cordially, for months, despite your most – aha – pointed of rebuttals. Fuck, that was a good pun, remember it for later.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells you in a half-whisper, kissing your neck and unbuttoning your shirt while you straddle his lap and let him slip use his other hand to fumble your belt buckle open.

“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, and you rock your pelvis against his cock, straining against the restrictive fabric of his pants. He chuckles, low in his throat, and he’s got your pants undone. Fuck, you’re so wet already. His hand slips down your underwear and your back arches, eyes squeezed shut. “You know what?” you ask, totally cool and not at all moaning like a stupid girl.

“Huh?” He looks up at you.

“I don’t have time for this.” You literally rip his pants open and wriggle your own off before you slide onto his cock and start rocking your hips against his, while he just watches you with dazed, blissful affection, his hands on your breasts, nipping at your neck and your lips, kissing – trying to kiss – and licking you. If you’re honest with yourself, it’s actually pretty nice.

Your name is Spades Slick, and you’ve just made a terrible mistake.

-()-

You hook up with Sleuth a few more times. In fact, it’s not really “hooking up” anymore, although fucked if you’re going to say you’re dating that jackass. You just like sex, and he’s great at it. Works out for everybody. If he wants to buy you drinks and dinner first, whatever, it’s his fucking money.

The morning after one such night, you’re feeling a little queasy. Probably the liquor, you think as you roll out of your bed. Funny thing was, you’re sure you hadn’t even been drunk – the bar got packed so the two of you ducked out for falafel and sex after what, a drink and a half?

You shrug, stretch, scratch your back, and put it down to shitty falafel.

You’re getting dressed when your sleep-dulled brain registers that something’s not right. You pause, midway through buttoning your shirt, and look down. Your shirt’s not buttoning. Not easily, anyway.

Which is ridiculous – your shirts are tailored. They all fit, especially across your chest, which is … pretty fucking flat, no use denying it, and not like you care, everything’s easier that way. But yet here you are, stretching the fabric to get the two sides of the shirt to reach across your boobs.

Your shirt last night was the same way too, come to think of it, but you just put it down to actually wearing a bra for once …

You hiss at the button, tug your shirt closed, and forget about it.

-()-

It’s a month later, and your number one lackey, Diamonds Droog, is knocking on the door to your bathroom. You just groan from the tile floor. Droog pushes the door open.

“The fuck is the matter with you?” he asks. You are not sure. You are curled up in a fetal position, next to the toilet, and you cannot stop puking. “You didn’t even drink last night.”

“I know,” you snap. He’s right: you spent all of yesterday morning puking, too. And the day before that.

“You sick or something?”

“Fuck you, retard, what do you think?” Droog frowns, but he helps you sit up anyway. You rest your forehead on your hand and look at him, fingers twining into your short hair. “I must be sick,” you mutter. “Fuck that.” You reach up and grab the lip of the sink and get shakily to your feet.

“You gonna be alright for the heist tonight?” Droog asks. He sounds doubtful. You snarl at him in the mirror. “Fine, just asking.” He turns and leaves, and you catch his glance that he shoots you over his shoulder, concerned and thoughtful.

You’re fine by three that afternoon, and wolf down a sandwich you slap together out of the fridge. And four pickles. Hearts notices. “Glad you’re feeling better boss,” he says, cautiously, because your temper’s been up for some reason.

“Yeah, whatever,” you say, leaning over his shoulder as he hunches over the heist plans. “You better be ready, I don’t have time to waste dicking around with you three jackasses tonight.”

He peeks at you, slyly, out of the corner of his eye, a little smile on his lips. “You got a date?”

You kick the leg of his chair, and it snaps and dumps him onto the floor. “Fuck you,” you mumble, around a mouthful of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, before you stalk from the room.

-()-

The heist goes off without a hitch, amazingly. You storm in at closing time, just the four of you, and you yell and scream the hostages into a corner and wave your horse hitcher while Hearts and Droog go for the safe and Clubs just stands by the door holding the detonator and smiling. A customer makes a move to run, and you smack his shoulder so hard you hear it break.

“Chill out, lady!” one panicked guard yells, flinching back from you. And then flinching some more, because your glare is hot enough to burn through steel.

“The _fuck_ did you call me?”

“Sorry,” he mutters, and the herd of jackasses stays quiet for the rest of the heist, until you and the guys sling the bags of haul over your shoulders and saunter out to the van. “Drop me off at Fifth and Lime,” you tell Droog, when you start driving away. He looks at you, but he doesn’t say anything.

You grab a pocketful of cash before you get out – not like it matters, Sleuth always pays – and find him a block away, waiting. He smiles when he sees you. “Where you been? You look fantastic.”

“Robbing a damn bank,” you mutter, and then you pull him into the alley and kiss him.

“I wish I didn’t believe you,” he sighed.

You bite him on the collarbone, jerking his shirt collar down and darting in before he can react. “I’m glad you do.”

-()-

Droog’s the first person to notice your clothes don’t fit right. You’ve been noticing it for a while, every morning when you get dressed, sometimes post-vomiting. Your shirts don’t button over your chest anymore without aggressive force (you’ve ripped two), and the bottom buttons are starting to strain.

You refuse to believe you’re gaining weight.

“I don’t think size 2’s cutting it anymore,” Droog says, with his usual sensitivity and tact. Not like you have a leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing people’s tact, but still. The only reason you don’t slug him is because you’re leaning on the banister of the balcony overlooking your casino and your staff gets upset when the two of you fight in front of customers.

You glare though, and show your teeth. “Go to hell, Droog.”

“Just an observation.” He smirks. “Maybe you should cut back on the fluffernutter, hm?”

You straighten up and cross your arms across your chest. “ _Listen_ , you fucking idiot,” you start. And then you take a deep breath to prepare for the haranguing you’re about to deliver.

The top button pops off your jacket.

“Don’t think I will,” Droog says, and fuck your staff, you sock that smug fucking smile off his face.

-()-

You’re at Sleuth’s later that month, and you’ve just taken off all your clothes. Which is a relief, because it means you’re about to fuck, which is nice, but also because they’re all too fucking tight around your torso and waist.

You are not gaining weight, though. This is important.

Sleuth is laying on the bed, naked, and he watches you walk over with that same happy, stupid expression he always has. And then it shifts to puzzlement, and you stop. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, so you pounce on him, and he puts his hands on your waist, and then that quizzical look comes back.

Your own expression goes flat. “You’re making this fucking difficult,” you inform him, sitting back on his thighs. He follows you and sits up, not taking his hands off.

“Have you gained weight?” he asks.

You’re not sure how long he’s unconscious, because you leave before he comes to.

-()-

You don’t talk to Sleuth before your next heist, because you’re planning, because it’s going to be huge, and because you’re still angry with him.

You are still Not Gaining Weight. You just had to buy new clothes, is all. Everyone does, once in a while.

You must be nervous, which is stupid, but you start noticing butterflies in your stomach on the way to the bank. Sure, it’s a huge heist, but you four are a team. You _have_ this. You must talk yourself out of it, because they fade as suddenly as they start.

You get to the bank and don’t storm the joint. No, you and Droog stroll in while Hearts and Clubs take armfuls of C4 around to a side entrance. The two of you up front wait until the tide of people – and there’s always a tide in places like this, ebbing and flowing – shifts mostly to the counters, and then you pull out your guns. There’s some screaming, and Droog has to blow some guy’s head off, but after that everyone settles down and huddles in the corner, their eyes flicking back and forth between the muzzle of your gun and Droog’s.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” one woman says, after about five minutes, while you’re smoking and waiting to hear the explosion from the vault. You shoot her a look, but she just glowers at you from red-rimmed eyes. “Endangering your baby like this,” she snaps, glancing at your stomach.

You shoot her through the leg on principle. Bitch can bleed out, for all you care.

Fuck it, fine, maybe you’re gaining weight. But that’s all. Because you are _certainly_ not goddamn pregnant.

Droog won’t let it go, though. At least he’s bright enough not to say anything in front of the other two. “Have you even checked?” he asked, later that night, while you slouch back in your chair, one leg up on the table, and count out a pile of money.

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Just piss on a stick, it’s not hard.”

“Fuck you, Droog.”

Droog sits back then, and pulls his cigarette from his lips. “Tell you what,” he smirks, pointing to you, “I’ll make a bet with you. You’re not pregnant –” your stomach just about drops out at that word “– and you can have all my share from this heist.”

It’s a lot of money.

“Get a fucking stick then,” you shrug.

Two hours later, when you come out of the bathroom, you punch Droog out and take the van.

Sleuth is overjoyed. You knock him out, too.

You absolutely, under no circumstances, cry at any point.

-()-

Two days later, and Sleuth shows up at your hideout. You slam the door in his face, or try to, but he’s got his foot stuck in there. You slam it again, extra hard, hoping to break a couple bones.

“I made you an appointment with a doctor,” he says.

That thing in your body flutters again and you glare. “What kind of doctor?” He grabs your wrist and doesn’t say anything. You follow him.

The kind of doctor, apparently, that smiles too much and acts like you should be happy, and puts cold shit on your stomach and holds a stupid wand against the bulging skin of your belly while Sleuth sits next to you. The kind of doctor that reports to you that the whooshing sound you hear coming out of the little box in his hand is a heartbeat. The kind of doctor that slides that stupid wand across your stomach when something sounds wrong and frowns for half a second before a steady beat emerges again and makes him smile like a mentally deficient jack-o-lantern. The kind of doctor that uses the word ‘twins’ like it’s something you didn’t have nightmares about.

The kind of doctor that runs out of the room when you stab the exam table and leaves you to have a minor screaming breakdown while your stupid hookup holds you and rocks you and lies about how it’s going to be okay.

It’s not going to be okay.

-()-

Sleuth takes you back to his place, even though all you want to do is kill him. You’re walking, somehow, but you’re foggy and drifting and he’s steering. “We need to have a talk, I guess,” he says, when he props you up on his couch and brings you coffee. You want a drink. You can’t have a drink.

“Fuck off,” you say. Something kicks your ribs, or maybe you’re imagining it. You apparently aren’t far enough … Never mind.

He sits down next to you and leans and twists until he’s looking you in the eye. You look away. “You can …” he takes a breath. His hands are shaking, his coffee’s spilling. “It’s your decision,” he says finally.

Something rolls and your stomach roils. It doesn’t hurt. You swear, and then you give up and drape yourself on his shoulders and let yourself cry because if you don’t you’re going to fucking murder Sleuth and while that’s not normally something you have many qualms about things are different right now.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair after he pulls off your hat and sets it aside. “I’ll set … _it_ up, if you want.” He rubs your back. “You don’t have to do this, we can get …” He can’t bring himself to say the word. “You can make it go away, if you want to.”

“I don’t.” It’s a lie, but only half of one. Truthfully, you don’t know what the fuck you want.

Something fidgets under your ribs on the left side, and you make up your mind.


	2. In the Glass

The Crew treats you differently, and you hate it. Nothing’s different, as far as you’re concerned, but Hearts makes sure you eat shit like vegetables and Droog takes all your liquor and Clubs buys you a heating pad. You cuss them all out and go into your room and put the stupid pad on your back and leaf through blueprints of all the city’s banks.

You’re casing one of the joints incognito – and by that you mean ‘not in a suit’ – when you run into fucking Snowman.

For the first time since you met the bitch, she’s speechless. “The fuck are you staring at?” you snap, and cross your arms across your chest.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“Fuck off.” And then she’s grabbing your stomach like she didn’t stab your fucking eye out four years ago. “Get the hell off me.” You spin away.

“How far are you?” she asks, like you’re best fucking friends and you don’t hate her guts. “Who’s the father? It’s Droog, isn’t it, I always knew you and Droog had something going on, ‘just friends’ my ass.”

You roll your eyes. “None of your business and _none of your fucking business_.”

“You have to be, what, four months? Ooh, unless it’s twins. Is it?” She’s following you out of the place. “Have you done the needle trick yet? You can tell if it’s a boy or a girl that way, I’m told, I’ve never tried it –”

You spin on her and refrain from punching her in the throat, your hands twisted into claws at your sides. “ _I don’t care_ ,” you snarl. “Go the fuck away.”

She nodded sagely. “Hormones. I was the worst with my first daughter.” She smirked. “I’m sure you remember; you were working for me.”

“It’s _not_ –” you can’t even speak through the rage, so you just make some kind of strangled noise and give her the finger before turning and storming down the street.

-()-

Sleuth takes you to a different doctor the next time, because apparently violent outbursts were frowned on at the first place. This one recognizes you – not surprising, everyone recognizes you, or at least your name – and bolts out of the room before you even say anything. Sleuth looks confused. “Hazard of the trade,” you tell him. Eventually they find some nurse with nerves of steel to listen to the heartbeats and then they make up some story about some bullshit theory called health insurance and basically tell you to get out. Sleuth is furious.

“Let’s just get a drink,” you tell him with a shrug, not even trying to get your jacket to button anymore. Your shirt is barely making it. Droog has already arranged for another fitting; you listened to the call. The word elastic was mentioned. You had to stab three pillows afterwards, until you felt better. Deuce brought you a fluffernutter sandwich when you’d finally put the knife down, as a final act of pacification.

“But – but …” he storms out after you, hands in his pockets. “You can’t drink anything, you know,” he gripes, because you think it makes him feel better.

“I know,” you say. You get a water and have the bartender put a slice of lime in it, just for the look, and revel in the horrified stares of the other patrons. Sleuth gets a beer.

“So,” he says. You don’t look at him, focusing on the baseball game instead. “24 more weeks of this, huh?”

“Yup.” You take a sip of water and make a face. “Gonna be great.” You don’t believe it for a second.

He slips his hand under your jacket and holds you around the waist until the ninth inning ends.

-()-

The next heist is Droog’s plan and, apparently, Droog’s call. He tells you you’re not going. Actually, specifically, he tells you you’re a complete idiot for considering it at all, and to stay home and listen to the police scanner.

You tell him he’s your employee and he can stick your horse hitcher up his ass if he thinks you’re not going. Then you grab the keys to the van and walk out.

Droog lets you drive, and then gets in a fight with you about whether or not you’re getting out of the car. You’re not sure why you still argue like this: you always win, anyway. Except for when you don’t. To your great satisfaction, though, this is not one of those times where Droog really digs his heels in.

It’s late, and the only people in the place are the guards. Hearts and Droog go in ahead of you and Clubs, and leave you and the little guy to hold everyone in place after you four have rounded everyone up.

“It’s four to two,” one of the guards pointed out, and you waved your horse hitcher at him. He looked to his friend. “I’ll take the midget, you take the girl.”

“I can’t hit her; she’s pregnant.” The second guard glanced to the first, reproachful. “That’s not right, man.”

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” you tell them.

“Yeah, dude, you can’t just hit pregnant chicks,” a third guard pointed out, and then he jerked a thumb at you. “Even if it is her.”

“Have the tabloids picked this up yet? I gotta admit, Slick, I never really saw you as the motheri-hurrfff.” He slumps over, horse hitcher-shaped bruise already forming on his forehead. You look to the other three.

“Any of you fuckwits have anything to contribute?” you growl.

“I agree with them,” Clubs said. You just glare at him.

A day later, when Sleuth finds out you were at the robbery, he doesn’t freak out. He just looks away and keeps his arm around you and very pointedly does _not_ freak out. In a way that’s worse for you, because now you have no springboard for a conflict. You’re not good at not confronting people.

“I can’t not go,” you mutter, when he doesn’t say anything and doesn’t try to move away from you. “Assholes wouldn’t know what to do without me there.” You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders against the chill in his apartment. “Someone’s gotta be the brains of that fucking operation.”

“Maybe you should have more faith in Droog,” is all he suggests.

You hate that a tiny, rational part of your brain agrees with him.

-()-

The second time you see Snowman, you almost hide. You don’t, because you’re Spades Slick, and hiding is not what you do, but you debate it for a minute. You’re far enough along now that you can’t disguise it anymore, and have stopped trying.

You think you preferred it when people just thought you were getting fat.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, ambushing you on your casino floor, “look at you! Spades Slick, I never thought I’d see the day.” She smiles and grabs your shoulders, while you just cross your arms and look away. “You look wonderful.”

“You better be spending some fucking money,” is the only response you can think of.

“Ah, you know blackjack; you win some, you lose some.” She smiles again. “So how far along, hm?”

“I’m done with this bullshit in September,” you mutter, barely audible over the slots.

She blinks, and looks you up and down. “That’s four months from now.”

“No shit, sleuth.”

“But you’re already …” She leans in. “Spades Slick, are you having twins?”

You grit your teeth. “Either spend money or get the hell out.”

Her jaw drops. “You _are_. Oh, God, tell me you’ve started planning. You have to start planning. When are you going to have the time?”

You give up. “No, I haven’t done anything. Stop talking to me,” you add, and then you turn and head for the front doors because you have to go see _another_ doctor, because Sleuth has the schedule down and has been calling doctors in the city day and night to find which one will a) take _you_ as a patient and b) take you _as a patient_.

You are, apparently, a complicated case, he tells you, as you walk over and try to ignore that you are getting a leg cramp for no reason whatsoever. Older – you’re 32, how is that older – with twins, and you’re underweight. Not to mention, he adds, in an attempt at humor, you’re a notorious mobster with a tendency to rob banks. He had a rough time finding someone. But he thinks maybe this guy might be it.

“His name’s Dr. Kuni,” he tells you, outside the office. It’s May, and as far as you’re concerned, it’s too hot. You dart inside, eager for air conditioning and a chair, even if you would never admit it.

Dr. Kuni is short, angry and burned-out. You like him immediately, and the two of your get in a massive argument about the diagnosis of ‘high risk’. Dr. Kuni enjoys it immensely, and at the end of the visit you swear at one another and he hugs you. “See you in four weeks, bitch,” he says, before he steps out of the room.

 Sleuth is stunned. “Did that … go well?”

“Four weeks,” you tell him, and push him ahead of you, out of the office. “Call and schedule it, you’re the one with a fucking coworker who has you on a tight leash.” He nods, and then shakes his head, bemused, and you go back to his apartment, stopping for Mexican food on the way.

You’re tearing up a box of yellow rice when he put his hand on your stomach. “What?” you ask, fork halfway to your mouth.

“Are you … are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Fine.” You shrug. You’re as surprised as he is, because you’re not lying. You _are_ fine with it. You’re not sure why. You weren’t sure for weeks at the very beginning – you had no idea what you wanted, other than to never have slept with the asshole in the first place – but the uncertainty had faded to something like acceptance and now was swirling into a 50/50 mixture of dread and excitement. “I’m … very okay with it,” you reassure him, because he doesn’t look convinced.

“You want to start thinking of names?” he suggests. The fillings of his burrito spill through a crack in the tortilla and into his lap.

One of the little monsters kicks you in the ribs – that’s something that you’re never going to get used to, you’re pretty sure – and you shrug at him. “What the hell you got in mind?”

-()-

“Slick, we need to talk.” You don’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. You’re sick of people needing to talk. Everyone needs to talk to you about something. You have a short list of two people you’ll actually _allow_ to talk to you about things. Luckily for Droog, he is on that list.

You know what it’s about. It’s always about the same thing these days, no matter who you’re talking to. Well, almost always. Sometimes Deuce will talk to you about something else, because he is too stupid to really focus on any concrete issue. And these days, you and Sleuth see each other at least once a day, so you talk about other things. You’re glad, because frankly your body is starting to ache in a million different places and it’s not something you’d like to fixate on.

“What, Droog?”

“Well, now that we’ve got your clothing situation sorted out, we need to talk about your plans for after delivery.” He frowned. “Where were you planning on living? You can’t stay here – headquarters are no place for kids.”

You shift on the couch, and your discomfort has nothing to do with the more persistent ache in your back and burning in your chest. “I got a place,” you confess, refusing to look away from your casino’s latest budget report. “Not far from here.”

“Oh?” He frowned. “It’s not Sleuth’s apartment, is it?” His face fell when you just turned a page with rather more urgency than was strictly called for. “It’s Sleuth’s apartment.”

“You can go to hell if you have a problem with it.”

“Slick, that will never work, and let me tell you why –”

“Why? Because you can’t keep an eye on me like I’m your fucking sister?” you snap. “Mind your business, dick.” You slam the papers onto the table and get up, swinging your coat over your shoulders. It still fits there, and across your back, as long as you don’t try to button it.

“ _No_ , Slick, listen,” he said more urgently, stepping in front of you and putting his hands on your belly. He only flinched a little when one of the babies kicked. “I’ve found the perfect apartment just down the street. Sleuth’s apartment will never work because you’re having twins and it’s a one-bedroom.”

“Oh,” you say, because you’re stunned he actually had a reason other than being selfish about you.

“Besides, I’ve already decorated it and forged your signature on the lease.”

-()-

You are 28 weeks pregnant, and you are becoming a recluse. You new place is nice: Droog lived up to his word. You and Sleuth filled it up with your shit, and Droog and his boyfriend he’d met via your hookup – whatever the hell the guy’s name was, PI or something – had filled it with baby shit.

You are becoming a recluse because you are exhausted. Your don’t sleep – everything aches, one baby or another is always moving and squirming, or you wake up gasping for air, or because you have to piss for the five thousandth time that day. You become a recluse because everywhere you want to go has stairs, which have become your natural enemy.

You could see the attraction in being a recluse, really, if it weren’t so fucking boring. No work, no drama, nothing. The worst part about it – besides the mind-numbing monotony – is the mirrors.

Droog put mirrors up as ‘accent touches’ or something. You hate the mirrors.

Your name is Spades Slick, you are 28 weeks pregnant, and you are already obnoxiously huge. Every time you walk past one of Droog’s accent mirrors you catch sight of some long-haired pregnant lady in sweats, and you feel like you’re hiding from her. You cut your hair short again, but it doesn’t really help.

Your next visit with Dr. Kuni starts better: neither of you have anything left to prove. You don’t fight, which Sleuth is obviously grateful for. He weighs you and you sort of want to scream because you’re huge and you can’t imagine ever losing all of this. The doctor tells you you need to gain more – another 20 pounds, at least – and you’re almost glad Sleuth made you give him all your cards before you walked in here. You still have a dagger in your pocket though, so you stab it through the drywall. Dr. Kuni snaps at you and tells you he’ll send you the bill.

This time, before he listens to the hearts, he put his hands on your stomach and presses. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Feeling where the babies are,” he tells you. “Obviously.” He moves his hands around, and then he grabs your wrist and puts your hand on some part of your stomach, and you fight not to recoil. You’re still not comfortable with what’s going on in there. You feel a ridge, curving and smooth, and a small sphere. You blink. “Baby A,” Dr. Kuni says, and then he grabs your other wrist and puts your other hand somewhere else. “And B.”

Suddenly, shit just got extremely real. You grab Sleuth’s hand on put it on A. He can’t stop grinning.

“The problem is,” Kuni said, and you snap out of whatever you were thinking about, “B is breech. It’s not uncommon but it makes things a hell of a lot worse for us.” He sneers. “ _High risk_.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

He waves his clipboard. “You’re paying me for this. You want to find another doctor, you can get the hell out, but good luck with that.” You just glower at him.

“Do you have … what do we do about it?” Sleuth asks. He won’t take his hand off you.

“Hope for the best and plan for the worst,” Kuni shrugs. “Best case scenario, the baby turns around before delivery. Worst case, I have to deliver a breech and hopefully it doesn’t go to hell too badly.”

“But it’s going to go to hell,” you say, flatly.

“Probably pretty quick, yeah, unless stuff stays simple.” He pats you on the shoulder. “It won’t be the first time I handle this, not to worry.” He pulls out the little box and listens to the heartbeats and counts out the rates. “Otherwise everything’s fine,” he says. “Two weeks.”

“Two?” Sleuth asks. “Not four?”

“Oh, I was thinking two but it you have another opinion, Dr. Sleuth, I’d be interested in hearing it.” You mop the stupid cold jelly off yourself and snicker while Sleuth stammers something at Kuni by way of apology. “Two weeks. Don’t rob any banks.”

“Well,” you mutter, “there go my plans for Thursday.”

“I hope you’re not serious,” Sleuth sighs.

You are.

-()-

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you really wish your boss would go on maternity leave. You’re not sure such a thing is a possibility for mob bosses, but in any case you’d really like to stop fighting with her about staying home while you and the other two go out and pull off the jobs you all have lined up. She doesn’t seem to share your opinion.

“You have two and a half months left and then you can rob all the banks you want,” you tell her, going up the stairs of your hideout, to street level. “Maybe more,” you amend, because there will be infants involved. “But still, Slick, it’s not forever.” You look to her, and find she’s not there. You look back down the stairs. She’s halfway up, leaning back against the wall, holding the stair rail, taking deep breaths.

“I just need to breathe,” she pants. “Fuck stairs.”

You smirk. “You’re not coming with us.” She glares at you. “Come on, Slick, look at you! You can’t even get up a flight of stairs without a break, much less help us clear out a vault. _Stay home_.”

She drags herself the rest of the way up the steps and ends up next to you, taking deep breaths and bracing her back with her hands. She won’t look at you, but you can see the wheels turning. “I’m sure there’s things you have to do, right? Take a nap.”

She scowls. “Fine. It’s too fucking hot out there anyway.”

“It’s not even July yet,” you point out. She gives you the finger.


	3. Last Leaf

Your name is Spades Slick, and you’re trying to get in touch with your feminine side.

This is more difficult than it probably ought to be, considering you are a female, but prior to this miserable biological experience you defined your “feminine side” as the part of you that occasionally contemplated getting a suit that was a little more tailored around the waist and the chest. You never really minded being a girl, but you never particularly wanted to engage in girly activities, either. There was a large part of you that _liked_ being called ‘sir’ when people weren’t sure.

Now, there’s no question. You have reached new dimensions that you never thought your body capable of. People see you and don’t recognize you as Spades Slick, because Spades Slick is the nasty, skinny gangster that runs circles around the cops, not the heavily pregnant woman who probably couldn’t run a circle around _a_ cop without pausing halfway to breathe.

You are trying to get in touch with your feminine side this afternoon because you are freaking the fuck out. You are ten weeks or less away from being a mother, and you have no idea what that entails. You never _had_ a mother: you were a ward of the state, raised by a kind if inattentive man on the outskirts of town, in a house of 14 other children. None of the rotating cast of children were ever under four. You are not sure where you lived before that.

Hearts Boxcars bought you a book on parenting, and what to expect after the birth of your child. Or children, as the case may be. It uses words like ‘mothering instinct’ and ‘natural reserves’ and you’re panicking because you are not sure you have either of those things.

You are panicking because you are terrified of the future and you don’t know what to do, and you have no one to help you.

The Crew will always be there for you, sure, you can count on them 24/7, and you know that. And Sleuth is … Sleuth has exceeded all your expectations. Sleuth is dumb and clumsy and annoying, but he’s attentive and sweet and he would do anything you asked, and lots of things you never even open your mouth about. He has been there for you every time you panicked, including the time last week when you realized that without meaning to, you’ve fallen for him, hard. You called him and he came home and you screamed at him and blamed him for your feelings and then you burst into tears and fell into his arms like a goddamn storybook princess.

He held you until you stopped and then kissed you and made you macaroni and cheese. He is your storybook prince, and he wields a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese like no one else that you know. You hate that you are even thinking in these terms.

But you are still feeling alone, because you are realizing that your lifestyle has left you isolated, a lone female island in a sea of men. It never mattered before.

There is one person you can think of that you know well enough, but you are trying not to call her. You are pacing around your apartment, trying not to call her. You try to tell yourself you’re tired and you’ll just take a nap, but you can’t find a comfortable position (big surprise). You stalk into the room with the baby shit and you glare at all of it and it does exactly the opposite of calming you down.

You call her. She picks up on the second ring. “Snowman here.”

“I’m scared shitless and I don’t know what to do.” You don’t bother to tell her who it is.

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”

She is, and you let her in. She looks you up and down and sighs. “You poor thing.” Her arm is around your shoulders then, and she sits you down on your couch. “You were just not built for this, were you?” She sits down next to you and runs a hand across your belly. “Oh, Slick.”

You put your feet up on the coffee table and start ranting, waving your arms and gesturing to yourself and talking about stupid piece of shit phrases like ‘mothering instinct’. You whine about how you don’t know what you’re going to do after they’re out. You panic over the fucking breech thing, which was still going on when you saw Dr. Kuni last time, and you have a serious panic over the fact that eventually there is going to be some kind of transition between being pregnant and having two babies outside of your body, and you’re almost 100% fucking sure it’s going to be the worst goddamn experience of your life.

The bitch just listens and nods and brings you some goddamn stupid decaf coffee that she makes for you. She doesn’t say anything, and for some reason that makes you want to spill your guts out for her. When you finish, she rubs your shoulder and lets you catch your breath and wriggle around on the couch until your back is cramping a little less. “I just … I just don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do next,” you conclude, your hands on your belly. B, or the one you think is B, kicks and twists around. It still weirds you out that you feel it.

She shifts on the couch and looks you in the eye – the _one_ eye, thanks to this bitch. “Slick, contrary to everything you’ve ever done in the past, the fact that you just expressed all this to me shows me something about you that I have to admit, I never really realized. And because of that,” she went on, her hand on your belly and a smile on her face, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

“But –”

“You’re not bright, you’re nasty, and you’re violent,” she tells you, while you scowl. “But you have a wonderful boyfriend –”

“He’s _not_.”

“– and even though you don’t believe it you _do_ have mothering instincts. This right here _is_ those instincts. This worry, this panic.” She pokes you in the chest. “Not _once_ did you worry about _you_ , and I admit I’m stunned; you are worried about your _babies_. Well, except for the part about labor. And yes, it’s awful.”

“Why did I call you?” you grumble.

“Because you needed to talk to someone else with a uterus that’s been occupied in the past.” She stands, and grabs your wrist. “Come on, get up.”

“Why?” you ask, not moving.

“We’re going shopping until you feel better.” You stare at her. She tugs your arm again. “Get dressed, move it.”

“I fucking hate shopping.”

“Would you just believe me for one second? It’ll make you feel better.” She grabs your other arm and hauls against you. You just lay back, and you know she’ll never get you up because you have a hard enough time with it on your own. “ _Slick_.”

“I’m not going shopping.”

She sighs and put her hands on her hips. “Fine. _One_ store. One.” She gestures around. “Just something to get you out of this place, alright?”

You glare at her for a while and then heave yourself up, choosing to ignore that she helps you with it. “Fine. One.”

“We’ll go get something for the kids,” she explains, outside your door while you struggle into something that is not sweatpants and one of Hearts’ old t-shirts. You don’t reply, because you’re busy trying to put on pants.

You will never, ever admit it, but you’re beginning to see the attraction of dresses.

You emerge in one of your modified suits. She laughs. “You can almost not tell from the back, you know,” she tells you.

“Well,” you growl, “at least there’s that.”

She takes you to a store full of cute things for babies and cooing women. You feel utterly out of place, but she ignores that and drags you around. Droog already bought most of this shit, and Sleuth has been buying things here and there, so you’re not sure what she thinks you’re going to buy. “I’m going to look at clothes,” she tells you, and you just shrug. You’re not going. You have clothes. You looked at them. Funny how they look tiny at first, and then as you get closer to actually having little people to put in them, they look terrifyingly huge.

She abandons you, and you debate running for it. Not that you can actually run, but you could probably get almost half a block before she caught up to you. But it’s cool in the store and you’re alone now, so you look around at the shelves of stuff. A bin of soft toys catches your eye, and you sort of disinterestedly paw through it.

You had a stuffed animal, back when you were a kid. A little stuffed Scotty dog that child services had given you before they left you in the home. You remember carrying that dog fucking _everywhere_. You’ve never revealed this, but you still have that toy, stuffed into a suitcase full of old shit you don’t want to forget or can’t bring yourself to get rid of.

You start digging through the cuddly animals with more interest. Not the unicorns or the giraffes, that doesn’t seem right, not for your kids. Not the frogs either, although you do stare at one for a while, and it stares back at you with black-button eyes, flopping limply in your hand. You put it back.

A flash of red catches your eye, and you lean on the edge of the bin to reach it. It’s a crab … lobster … thing. You were never good at aquatic animals. Maybe a crayfish. You hold it, and turn it this way and that, while one of the babies punches you in the kidney. You don’t put it back.

The layer of cute and cuddly animals gives way to a layer of equally plushy but less adorable animals. The crab was just the tip of the iceberg: soon you’re elbow-deep in the things, pushing aside spiders and tentacled horrorterrors and heinous goatmonsters. You wonder briefly who would buy these, and then realize that you are looking at them for the second baby.

You. You would buy these awful things.

The next thing you come across is a moth. It has to be: no butterfly would be brown, or have a pattern on its face that sort of looks like a skull. It’s got orange horns, or maybe those are antennae. You take the two to the register, bypassing every other part of the store. You don’t want anything else, you _have_ everything else, and you’re tired and you want to go home.

You feel immensely better, too, which is something.

Snowman doesn’t force you to look at anything else, just makes sure you get home and leaves after you tell her to fuck off with less prejudice than you usually manage. She hugs you before she goes, and your skin crawls but you let her, because for once she was right.

Sleuth gets home later, and he finds you asleep. You’re in the nursery, slouched back in the recliner, and he’s surprised because thus far you’ve steadfastly refused to go in there for any length of time besides to look at everything and say “it’s nice.” He’s glad, too, because he was starting to get worried.

Then he realizes you have two hideous stuffed animals on your stomach, brand new, and he can’t help but smile.

-()-

“I want you back in here next week,” Dr. Kuni tells you, two months before you’re due.

“But that’s not supposed to happen for another month,” Sleuth says, bewildered; he’s been reading, and it’s showing. Kuni stares at him. “Sorry.”

“Twins go early a lot of the time.” He glares at you. “You’ve been so fucking difficult though I wouldn’t be surprised if you hold onto them for an extra two weeks.”

“Jesus, I hope not,” you groan, slouching back on the table.

“I would say I hope you do, just because you’re a bitch, but I loathe the thought of seeing you for two extra weeks.”

You flash an entirely insincere smile. “I hope you die three months from now.”

“Good talk,” he says, shooting the latex gloves across the room and into the trashcan. He pats your stomach and leaves, calling “One week,” over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand the two of you,” Sleuth marvels as he walks alongside you, back toward your end of town. You don’t answer, because you’re breathing too hard. “You need to sit down?”

“No,” you lie, and your back begs you to tell the truth. Sleuth puts his arm around your shoulders, and for all intents and purposes it looks affectionate. Normally, you’d put a stop to that immediately, but since he’s also supporting you, you decide to allow it. “I need to stop by my old place,” you tell him, when you stop at a light and catch your breath a little.

He looks suspicious. “You’re not working, are you?”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “I just … miss the guys.” He snorts. You scowl. “Fine, yes, there’s some shit I need to handle alright? Am I allowed?”

“Just curious,” he says, and he goes with you around the corner toward the hideout. He knows you well enough to stop at the threshold. “See you at home?”

“Later,” you confirm, and then pull him by the lapels into the shadow of the door to kiss him before you turn away and duck inside.

Hearts is the first one to see you, right after you come downstairs. “Jesus, boss,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“It’s the goddamn miracle of life, so shut the fuck up,” you snark back at him. “What the fuck have you assholes been up to?”

“Same as always. Droog’s working on a big heist, we figured we’d save it until you’re back because seems pretty likely you’d kill us if we didn’t.”  He follows you to the living room, and you collapse gratefully onto the couch, stretching your legs out and groaning. Hearts drops onto the couch next to you. “That looks like it sucks.”

“It does,” you confirm. Something hits your liver. “So tell me about the heist.”

He does, but you can tell his focus isn’t on anything heist-related. You close your eyes and try to imagine you’re not going to be a parent in two months, your back doesn’t ache, you don’t have heartburn every time you eat and it’s not intolerably hot every time you go outside. You try to imagine you’re planning this heist with Droog and Boxcars and Deuce, just the four of you, like always, and yeah maybe you’re seeing Sleuth on the side … Why are you always thinking about Sleuth now, it’s like you can’t even run through a decent fantasy without him …

Boxcars tails off with a smile when you start snoring.

-()-

Your name is Problem Sleuth, and your possibly-girlfriend-if-she-feels-like-it is 35 weeks pregnant and due any time next month. You are a nervous wreck.

You have been working out some of your nerves, sleuthing minor problems and sticking close to home. PI and Ace have been handling the worst of the stupid puzzle shit on their own, which is good. You go home at least over lunch every day to check on her, if not more. Sometimes she’s there, sometimes she’s down the street with her Crew, haranguing them or planning a heist or joining them for band practice. You’re glad, because when she doesn’t leave the apartment, she sulks.

You get home tonight and the apartment’s dark, but the TV’s on. She’s sitting on the couch, feet and ankles up on the coffee table, pillows and a hot pad nestled behind her back, and a carton of ice cream on her stomach. “Shut your fucking face,” is all she says.

“I didn’t say anything.” You sit down next to her, gently, and cock your head. “You’re upset.”

“No I’m not,” she mutters, around a mouthful of ice cream. She looks at you sidelong, and her green eye flicks quickly back to the screen. “Leave me alone.”

“You feeling alright?”

“Fine. Go the fuck away.”

You sit back and put your feet up next to hers. “What’s the matter, Slick?”

“Holy shit, would you _stop_ ,” she snaps, and you blink.

“Stop what?”

She stabs the ice cream with more force than is strictly necessary. “Acting like you give half a shit,” she mutters. You stare at her.

“ _What_?” You spin on the couch to face her. “Of course I care, where did you –”

“You cannot _possibly_ care,” she explains, frustrated. She points to herself with the spoon. “Look at me! Do not try to fucking tell me you care about _this_! I’m … I’m totally undesirable and short and nasty and fucking slow and I have fucking bags under my eyes every day and I’m fat as hell and –” You just stare. Spades Slick has got in touch with her feminine side. And she is breaking down.

You put your hand on her shoulder. “Stop,” you say, without raising your voice. She does, and you can see her fighting tears back. “First of all, you’re not fat, you’re pregnant. And second of all, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She eats a spoonful of ice cream to stop her lip from trembling. “You’re lying.” She looks back to the TV. “If I’d never gotten pregnant, you’d have been out of here …”

You wrap your arms around her and pull her into you, gently. “Don’t say that,” you mutter, brushing her hair out with your fingers. “It’s not true.”

“You’re _using_ me –”

You just kiss her on the temple and squeeze her shoulders. It seems to calm her down, put a stop to whatever she’s going on about. “I am not using you.” You put one hand on her stomach but keep your other arm tight around her shoulders. She looks at you, cautiously. “I mean, I think I’ve been pretty transparent about how happy I am about this, yeah, but …” Man, you are going to use up all your pulchritude points ever to get this out without her getting upset. “If this had never happened, if you weren’t going to have actual babies, nothing would have changed. I’m excited and thrilled but … I wouldn’t have given up on you, even without that.”

She sniffs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I promise. ‘Cause …” you take a breath. “’Cause I love you, Spades Slick. I really do.”

She just stares at you, her expression puzzled but not angry, and you wait for the shift to happen. But it never does. Instead, she shoves the ice cream carton between the couch cushion and the arm and grabs you and kisses you. She tastes like chocolate and licorice and marshmallows. “Say it again,” she murmurs when she pulls back.

You smile. “I do. I love you.”

You don’t have sex, and you can’t blame her for that for even a second. But she helps you out, in a manner of speaking, and then you put the ice cream paraphernalia back and help her off the couch and into bed. She has a terrible time sleeping – it’s too hot, the babies move too much, her back hurts and unless she rolls onto her side she can’t breathe – but she’s so tired she can usually manage to pass out for a few hours.

After the hours are up, she starts stirring, and it wakes you up, just barely. You sleepily put your arm over her and wake up a little more when she laces her fingers into yours. “Hey Sleuth?” she says, quietly, her voice thick with sleep and exhaustion.

“Hm?”

“You too.”

You fall back asleep with a stupid smile on your face that nothing could possibly get rid of.


	4. WTF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so um the possibly squicky stuff starts in this chapter, just a heads up y'all

Your name is Spades Slick, and you are going crazy. Or, at least, you’re fairly sure you might be.

You are supposed to have a baby – babies – in two weeks, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die before then. You yelled at your doctor to do something to make things hurry the fuck up last time you saw him and he stuck his hand up in you like you’re a Thanksgiving turkey and he’s looking for giblets, but he just laughed at you.

Your boyfriend – yes, fine, boyfriend – insists that you should stay home and rest and all that bullshit. He watches you waddle (you hate how much that word applies to you right now) around the apartment every day, and pause to breathe, and try to put shoes on, or pants, or really anything that requires you access your feet, and he just shakes his head and helps you when he can, and when you let him. He let you go after a spoon you’d dropped on the floor for a full two minutes the other day, before pity overcame him and frustration overcame you.

You’d be happy to stay home, you think, if home was not so boring. You have been staying home more and more for the past 4 months, and you are well and truly losing your mind. You need to get out, go somewhere, even if it’s just down the street to the hideout, and it takes you an hour to walk there.

Most of your clothes – even the special ones – don’t fit anymore. You can still slip into your pair of elastic-waist slim black pants, thank God, but your stomach is simply too big for the shirt not to look awkward. So you pull out an oversize t-shirt that Hearts gave you and your same old black jacket, despite the heat, and you lock the door behind you as you make your way to the hideout.

Droog apparently stepped out for coffee, and he’s on his way back when he sees you on the street. “The hell are you thinking?” he asks with a sigh. You get the feeling he is not all that surprised. “Christ, boss, you can barely walk.”

“I can walk fine,” you insist, and you ignore the pressure in your pelvis. Dr. Kuni had been pleased about that, as uncomfortable as it was. Apparently it meant they were getting close, so you weren’t going to complain about it. Very much. “See? Walking.”

Droog looks doubtful. “If you can call that walking, I guess.” He sips his coffee. “Looks like waddling to me.”

“Fuck you,” you puff. “I’d like to see you try this.”

“No, thank you, I’m quite content with the status quo.” He arches an eyebrow and slows his pace a little to avoid walking ahead of you. “You bored, then?”

“Fuck yes.” You shake your head. “I can’t stare at the same fucking four walls every day until these little bastards come out. I gotta do something.”

Droog gets the door for you, and hovers by your elbow as you clamber down the stairs. “There’s some things we could use your help on,” he shrugs. “Heist plans and casino budgets.”

“I don’t give a shit, as long as it’s not re-folding the same baby clothes for the goddamn two thousandth time.” You step into the hideout proper, and Clubs is there. He runs over and throws his arms around your middle, as far as they can go.

“You look like you’re about to explode,” he tells you.

“Thanks, Clubs.”

“Are they coming soon?” He has his hands on you, and by now you’re used to it from the three jackoffs you work with. He beams when one of the babies squirms. “Are they ready?”

“I don’t know when,” you sigh, and you wish for the thousandth time that you did. “They’re ready though, they’re just … growing or whatever the hell they’re doing. Don’t remind me.”

“Oh.” He nods, sagely, and steps back. “Best not to rush it then. Growing is important.” He beams again. “Are you helping us with the heist tonight?”

“Goddammit, Clubs,” Droog sighs.

Ultimately, you do help, even if Sleuth insists on going along to make sure you don’t actually get out of the van. You drive, and for one terrifying moment you think you’re not going to fit behind the steering wheel, before Sleuth helps you slide the seat back and you arrange yourself so you can drive to the bank.

“This is insane,” Sleuth mumbles, hunched down in the passenger seat, while the other three run around inside the bank in the dead of the night. It’s killing you that you’re not in there, too. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“I can’t believe you came,” you retort, picking some dirt out from under one of your fingernails with a knife. “Not very sleuthly of you.”

“Hm. The things I do for you.” You look over at him without turning your head, a smirk on your lips. “Woe is me.”

“Poor baby,” you say, patting him on the knee. “Have to sit in a car for twenty minutes before I can make out with my damn share of a couple million dollars.”

He glances out the window of the van – there were explosions going off in the bank, and you’re pretty sure those weren’t planned but that was the way it tended to go when Droog and Hearts were trying to run the show – and then leans across the arm rest and kisses you on the cheek. “In my terribly un-sleuthly opinion,” he chuckles, “you’re pretty sexy when you’re being a criminal mastermind.”

You can’t help but laugh. “And you’re pretty stupid if you think that’s going to get you anything right now, in this van.”

He shrugs and kisses you again. “Good thing I’m patient.”

-()-

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you’re wondering if you can get your boss placed under house arrest for the rest of her pregnancy. She’s huge, and she can hardly walk. Her normally slight and tiny frame is so distorted nothing really fits her, and her body is resisting all the changes with, apparently, the same vitriol she has.

She stops what she’s doing – getting herself a cup of coffee, decaf – to lean on one of the counters in the hideout and take a few deep breaths, one hand braced hard on her back. “What’s the matter?” you ask, looking up from your paper. The cops are still bewildered by your heist last week, and you’re enjoying watching their progress.

“Fucking back cramp,” she pants. “Been having the things all goddamn morning.” She squeezes her eyes shut, but then it passes, and she’s back to herself. “Didn’t manage any fucking sleep last night.”

“Hm,” you say, as the alarm bells start ringing in your head. You’re not an expert on this sort of thing, but you have noticed the weight she’s carrying has shifted lower. And yeah, she just wasn’t built for this kind of thing, so her back’s been killing her for a while now, but all night … “On and off?” you ask, innocently.

“Same as always, just fucking comes and goes.” She’s sitting across from you, leaned back in the chair, her eyes closed. You check your watch, and the two of you go back to what you’d been talking about before.

You can tell when the next “cramp” hits without her saying anything. She gets this distant look, and her shoulders tense, and then she closes her eyes and takes a breath. You look at your watch. 7 minutes. You don’t say anything, and just let her lead the conversation back on track when it passes. She’s especially pleased with the heist, even though you demolished half of the bank in the process. It doesn’t hurt her mood to know that the cops aren’t even suspecting the Midnight Crew, since the robbery was too sloppy and too erratic. The 28th Street Legbreakers are the leading suspects, even though both of you know they’d never be able to even get into the place.

It’s 5 minutes before she has another one, and you frown. Best to take an average. You wait it out for a few more, and when it becomes apparent that the 7 minute gap was the outlier, you broach the topic.

“Hey boss?” She looks up at you, leaning on the table in the aftermath of the last episode, her temples cradled in her fingers. “You alright?”

“Yeah, this is just … fucking awful.” She sounds miserable and she rubs her back in an attempt to make herself feel better. You suspect it won’t do a damn thing.

“I’ve been timing your cramps, you know,” you say mildly. Her expression goes sharp, and she shows her teeth.

“I’m _not_ –”

“You’ve been having cramps more or less five minutes apart.” You raise an eyebrow. “Regularly.”

“No, no fuck you, it’s not that,” she dismisses. “This is just cramps. Argh.”

“Cramp?” you ask dryly, and she hisses.

“No, moving.” She sighs and rubs her temple, eyes closed. “I am never doing this again.”

“I should hope not.” You read your paper and listen to her breathe, and when you glance up she looks half-asleep, until another contraction – you’re sure that’s what it is, by now – surges across her, and her whole body tenses. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. Just fucking miserable and exhausted,” she says slowly, breathing deeply. “Same as the past two weeks.” She yawns and blinks blearily at the couch. “Maybe I should take a nap or something.”

“Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“Maybe you should shut the hell up, Droog.” She sighs and closes her eyes once more as another contraction hits, although you’ll never say aloud that it’s a contraction. “I’m waiting for Sleuth to get here before I go anywhere.”

You level her with a look over your newspaper. “If you’re going to the hospital I can call him. He’ll meet us there.”

“ _No_. Jesus, all you do is meddle. I know what the fuck’s going on, and it’s not time yet. I still have a whole damn week left.”

“Yes, because babies are aware of the time frame,” you mutter, dryly, and she kicks your shin under the table. “Fine, you’re the boss.”

“So let’s talk about the plans for the fucking skydocks,” she says, picking up a folder and flipping through the papers. “This is a big fucking deal.”

“I have every bit of confidence that once the team is back together we’ll be able to handle it.”

“I never said I doubted that, Droog. We’re the best there is, fuck the other assholes.” She smirks and spreads the papers out on the table. “I’m just thinkin’ this is gonna take some _serious_ coordination. Maybe pull in some outside contractors, much as I hate to do that shit,” she sighed. “The computer network in particular is bugging the shit outta me.”

“We could call that guy we used when we boosted Kingpin’s car collection,” You suggest, folding your newspaper and leaning over the papers, turning them to you as you need them. “Psiionic. Deuce still sees him all the time.”

She frowns and drums her fingers on her stomach. “Fuck, though, I hate using third parties. Even if we can trust them, we still have to pay them.”

You shrug. “He wasn’t bad though, after Hearts and I talked to him. Pretty reasonable, really.” You think for a minute, rubbing your chin. “Actually, I think he and his wife just had a kid, too … Might not even be able to get him. I’ll have to find out.”

“Well let’s figure out if we even _need_ him.” She grabbed the edge of the table and got to her feet, steadying herself for a second before straightening with a grimace. And then she frowned. “Be right back.”

You let her go without question, all the while wondering if she’d finally picked up on something being slightly amiss. Quietly, you pick up the phone and spin a number. You just hope the jackass has the pieces together.

“Problem Sleuth,” he answers, and he sounds way more hardboiled than his usual confused self.

“It’s Droog,” you mutter into the phone. You hear Sleuth half-gasp. “Everything’s fine, but you should start walking to the hospital. No rush.”

“The hell do you mean no rush?!”

“Slick’s in denial. I’m working on it.”

“Oh.” He sighs, and then groans. “That makes sense. Alright. What if I headed to where you are …?”

“Just get there. I think she’ll be easier if she knows you’re there already.”

“Right. Uh. Okay. Yeah.” And now he’s actually registering what’s going on, and you almost laugh at how frazzled he suddenly is. “I guess … I guess I should call Kuni. Right. And get … oh, God.”

“See you,” you say, and hang up the phone, partially because there isn’t anything more to be said, and partially because Slick is screaming for you. “What?” you yell, grabbing the keys to the van and putting your coat on.

She emerges, and she looks about as frantic as you’ve ever seen her, and that includes all the times she’s been arrested. “We gotta go,” she says urgently, bracing herself in the doorframe. “You were right, we have to go. Now.”

You realize her pants are wet. “Is that … ?”

She lurches for the stairs. “Shit, yeah, it is. Fuck, you need to call Sleuth, I need to –”

“Just get to the van,” you say, and you run to grab a towel or something because this is ridiculous. “Fuck.”

-()-

Your name is Spades Slick, and you are in labor.

It is every bit as awful as you imagined it, and more.

Droog got you to the hospital without obeying a single traffic law, and Sleuth was already there, waiting. You would be furious with Droog for anticipating this, if you weren’t busy being furious with and panicking about everything else.

They show you up to a room with a bed and a window with a view of the park and you really couldn’t care less because you are too frantic. Sleuth is trying to calm you down, but it’s not working. “Maybe you should stop pacing,” he suggests.

“I can fucking pace if I want,” you snap, and then you glare at him when he shoots Droog a pleading look. “Don’t say a damn word, Droog.”

“Not going to.”

Sleuth gets up and starts pacing next to you, maybe because it makes him feel better. You don’t care. The staff of the hospital has abandoned the three of you, and it’s fairly apparent no one will be coming back. They all took one look at the name on the chart and fled. You really hope Kuni gets here sooner rather than later, because you are _not_ going through with this with only Sleuth and Droog present.

“I really don’t think you should be pacing,” Sleuth insists, when you get blindsided by another contraction and he has to grab you when your knees wobble.

“I feel better when I fucking pace,” you tell him, pulling away despite the burning in the entire lower part of your body. They’re lasting longer now, and you haven’t been counting but you’re pretty sure they’re still five minutes apart, which is what Kuni told you to watch out for. It fades away, and you pick up the pace a little more.

“Well,” he says, catching up to you as you lap the room once again, “I mean, whatever works.” He leans around to catch a glimpse of your face, and you stop chewing your lip and snarl at him. “Are you doing okay?”

“Of _course_ I’m not fucking doing okay –”

“I mean, you know, not physically.”

You look at him, poised between snapping something and just punching him in the arm, but then you’re gasping and he’s grabbing you and holding you until the worst passes and fades into a mildly debilitating screaming pain, rather than the unbearable agony of your guts trying to expel two tiny humans. He’s looking at you, when the haze fades away, and you fall against him, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he tells you, rubbing your back and helping you get your feet back under you. He’s such a liar sometimes.

“No going back on it now,” Droog says, from behind his newspaper. “Bus is pretty much driving itself, from what I understand.”

“No one asked you,” you snap, panting, hanging off Sleuth’s shoulder and pacing off again. Your left hip is starting to ache from circling the same direction, so you turn around and go the other way.

“Just pointing out a fact.”

Droog is your best friend, but sometimes you really, really, _really_ want to kill him.

You punch him in the shoulder on the next pass, instead.

-()-

Your name is Dr. Kuni, and you are trying to round up some nurses. It’s not going well.

“Listen, I got a high risk in room eight with twins. I need _someone_ ,” you almost yell, your hands bunched into fists and grinding into the desk at the nurse’s station.

“Room eight?” The charge nurse looks down to her list of patients and starts laughing. “Yeah, sure, good luck finding someone for that. None o’ my girls gonna be helping you with that.”

“What, so I’m supposed to do that shit myself?” you sputter, incredulous.

“Don’t care how you do, we ain’t goin’ in there.” She glances over her shoulder. “Right girls?”

“Who’s room eight?”

“Slick.” The assembled nurses pale and, as one, shake their heads. The charge grins up at you. “Nothin’ doin’, boss. Unless Whitney back there wants to help out.”

Whitney, the unfortunate nurse pointed out by the charge, is standing at the medication dispenser. She looks to you, and then hits the emergency close button on the drawer without taking her hand out. Bones crackle.

“Sorry, miss, but I think I may have just broken my hand.”

The charge grins wider. “Like I said, Kuni, good luck. Anyone can handle that powder keg it’s you.” She pats your clenched fist. “Put all those years of experience to work, hm? Surely you can deliver a couple twins.”

“Fuck you all,” you yell, and then storm past the station to the room.

Slick’s pacing, and Sleuth’s with her, which is good. The guy in the chair, though, with the newspaper … “Diamonds Droog?”

His expression doesn’t change a whole lot, but he might look a little surprised. “Have we met?”

“We haven’t,” you grumble, buttoning your white coat up. “I just thought about who I would really not like to see in my delivery room and then who was most likely to be there, and who would be most likely to murder me, and the answer was totally clear.” You force an insincere smile. “Plus, the diamond pin on the lapel’s a dead giveaway. How we doing, Slick?”

“How the fuck do you think?” She stops pacing, and you look her up and down. Oh, yeah. Between the lie of the babies and the way she looks completely different than she usually does – all women get this look right before they deliver, drawn and distant and tired, totally absorbed with what they’re about to do, and you’ve learned to pick up on that pretty fucking quick – you can tell you’re there. It’s time.

“Alright, keep pacing. Gentlemen, a word, if you please.” You turn away and pull a cabinet door open and produce three paper packets. “Don’t open them yet,” you tell them, laying yours face-up on the counter.

“What is it?” Sleuth asks, only half-focused on you.

“Hey, dipshit, pay attention.” You lower your voice, so Slick can’t hear. Hopefully. “None of those nurses will come in here. Literally they are mutilating themselves to avoid it.”

“Well that’s predictable,” Droog murmurs.

“Which means you two are riding shotgun.” You hear a card flick and then a gun hammer click back. “Droog, you can’t threaten to murder them to get them in here.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re stubborn and you’ll probably have to kill two or three before they cotton on, alright?”

“Which two or three would you not mind losing?”

“ _Listen_ ,” you snarl, glaring from Sleuth, who looks like he’s about to pass out, to Droog, who has the same expression he always has. “It’s not hard, alright? Not for you two. So watch me put sterile gloves on and practice until you don’t totally suck at it and hopefully everyone will make it through this.”

“I’m not qualified for this,” Sleuth says distantly, as he mimics you unfolding the packet of gloves.

“I’m not dressed for this,” Droog amends.

-()-

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and some distant part of you is wishing you hadn’t dropped out of medical school halfway through year two. You don’t think it would have helped that much, because you can’t see yourself ever working in obstetrics, but at least you would have more than a general familiarity with what is happening right now.

Slick is pacing, and swearing and occasionally swearing even louder. She doesn’t look like a mob boss right now, not in that atrocious crime against fashion that the hospital gave her, not with everything else that’s going on. No, right now she looks like a tiny, scared, angry woman who’s about to do something that apparently comes naturally but in her case appears as though it’s going to take some persuading.

Right now she looks like the girl you dropped out of medical school to live with and, eventually, rob jewelry stores and banks and loading docks with. The girl you wished had ever looked at you the same way you looked at her, a long time ago. The girl you are so, so glad is not having your baby right now.

Mostly because the guy she _is_ with at the moment is probably regretting it. Because she keeps hitting him.

“If I have to hurt like this then goddammit I’m not going to be alone,” she snarls as she has another contraction and punches him in the arm, hard. Her doctor is laughing at her, his arms crossed as he reclines in the chair next to you.

“So,” he says, “med school dropout, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Year two.”

“Why?” You just look pointedly at Slick. He watches her for a minute. “Huh. Interesting choice.” He grunts and crosses his legs. “Well I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

“Humor me.”

“Means you’re the second most medically educated person in this room.” He shoots you a pointed look. “Which means you’re dealing with the first baby while I deal with the second one. And there’s gonna be something to deal with, because that little fucker’s still breech.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know what a hemostat is, Droog?”

You blink.

You _really_ are not dressed for this.


	5. This Too Shall Pass

Your name is Spades Slick, or at least you think it is. You’re having a hard time remembering. Actually, no, you’re remembering just fine, it’s the focus that’s off. Mostly because your attention is firmly elsewhere.

You grab your boyfriend – fuck him, fuck him for ever touching you, this is _his fault_ – and let him hold you up for a minute while you breathe. And then you give up the ghost and stagger over to the bed, finally, and you can tell everyone in the room except maybe Dr. Kuni is relieved about that. Dr. Kuni grumbles something about having to work now, and gets up to get ready.

You have your hands clenched into the front of Sleuth’s shirt, and he’s holding you on the edge of the bed, where you landed when you sat down. You look up at him, and for a second you can see that he’s scared, he’s terrified, fuck, yes, just like you’re terrified, because he doesn’t know what to do about any of this either. This is uncharted water, and it’s just got very stormy.

You pull him in and admit “I’m scared.”

His expression changes, and it’s something you needed to see. He becomes the hardboiled Sleuth, and he bends over you and holds you and rubs your back. “Don’t be scared,” he tells you. “I’m right here, you don’t need to be scared.”

You’re shaking, but you’re not sure what that’s from anymore. Could just be from everything else that’s happening to you, could be from the room feeling like a refrigerator, or it could be that you’re totally frozen with terror mentally, while physically everything is carrying on without you.

Dr. Kuni puts his hand on your shoulder and breaks the two of you apart. “You need to lay back, Slick; I have to check out what’s going on here.”

“I wanna pace.”

Kuni rolls his eyes. “What, you wanna do this natural birthing thing? No. Lay back, let me check you.” You listen, because he’s telling you what to do and he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, but you don’t let go of Sleuth and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, running his hand over your head, soothing. “You can do this. You’re gonna do great.”

You’re shaking your head. “I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t, Sleuth, I’m not the kind of person that does this.” You’re crying and you don’t give a shit. Droog’s on your other side now, steadfastly not watching whatever Dr. Kuni is doing, just rubbing your shoulder. “Sleuth I can’t, I _can’t_.”

He puts his hand on your forehead and leans in. “Yes you can,” he says firmly, and you nod desperately because you really want to believe him. “Alright? You’re really strong and really, really stubborn and if anyone can do this it’s you, Spades, okay?”

You nod, but you’re still whimpering something that sounds like ‘I can’t’. Sleuth looks up to Droog, and leans back. You grab his tie. “Don’t go anywhere,” you snarl, but Droog’s hands are on your shoulders and he’s leaning into your line of sight, Sleuth hovering in the background.

“Slick.” Droog frowns and pushes some hair out of your face. “Sleuth’s right. I’ve seen you do amazing things, insane things, and this is something that is completely natural and not crazy at all.”

“But I don’t –”

“Remember the first time we robbed somewhere?” You nod, while Sleuth and Kuni look at the two of you, suddenly both listening. “We just … walked into that jewelry store and all of a sudden you pulled out a gun and started screaming at everyone.” He chuckled. “I had no _idea_ what you were doing, and you probably didn’t either and we both got shot, remember?”

“Yeah,” you say, panting, suddenly overwhelmingly hot. You’d never tell Droog this, and certainly not right now, but you had been planning on warning him about what you were going to do. You really had, but then you’d stepped into the store and he’d said the words ‘engagement ring’ and you’d panicked.

“I thought I was going to die, and then I saw how much you were bleeding and I thought you were going to die. But you _dragged me out of there_ ,” he said, shaking your shoulders a little. “And you put some stitches in me and kept me awake so I could sew you up and then we both passed out in that shitty apartment. Slick, if you can do that, you can do this, alright?”

You nod, and then look frantically to Dr. Kuni. “He’s right.” He shrugs and you realize he’s sitting on a stool and he looks like he’s waiting. “Out of passive interest, do you feel like you ought to be pushing?”

You’re crying, and your legs are shaking, and Sleuth looks like he’s about to pass out. “Yeah,” you whimper, because you _are_ , and your back’s on fire, and you never imagined it would ever hurt this badly. Sleuth grabs your hand and just keeps rubbing your hair and Droog’s got his hand on your knee like he’s ready for something.

“Well hurry up because I’ve got a head that’s ready to descend here and the sooner you start pushing the sooner we can all go home.” He nodded to Sleuth and Droog. Clearly they’d discussed this in advance, because they grabbed your legs and rocked your pelvis back while you just screamed at them. You’re not making sense right now – you might have yelled something about Feynman safes and macaroni – because you cannot even think enough to construct a sentence that isn’t ‘I can’t’, ‘oh fuck’ or ‘don’t fucking go anywhere’. You can feel the joints in Sleuth’s hand cracking in yours.

“Slick, you have to push,” Kuni says, loud and clear. You listen.

-()-

Your name is Problem Sleuth, and the fact that your girlfriend is breaking your hand is the least of your concerns. The fact that she was screaming two minutes ago and is now very, very quiet – usually a terrible sign – is not even registering. Because the fact that your girlfriend is in active labor is the only concern you can imagine having right now. “Keep pushing,” you tell her, through the whole contraction. “Come on, keep going, you’re doing great.” You don’t know that, but it’s not going to hurt to say it.

The contraction trails off and she goes limp with a whimper. “You’re doing great, really,” you tell her, and the doctor nods.

“It hurts so much,” she whines. “There have to be drugs or something. Fuck, Sleuth, you are never touching me again.” She manages to look at Kuni. “Is it close?” He just laughs. “Fuck you,” she groans.

“Focus,” Droog tells her.

“Goddammit Droog shut the fuck up.”

“Just keep going, it’ll happen soon.” She tenses and you try to wriggle your hand to a less agonizing position in hers, but it’s hard to do that and keep your hand on her knee at the same time.

“Droog,” she grits out, mid-contraction. He looks at her, mildly surprised. “Next time … next break … smash that fucking clock.”

“How about I just cover it with a towel instead.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

Droog sighed and patted her knee. “Stay focused, don’t worry about the clock.”

“Hey Year Two,” Kuni says, apparently christening Droog with a new nickname, “wanna see what’s going on down here?”

“Absolutely not,” he says quickly, even before Slick glares at him, her lips pulled back from her teeth. You just keep reassuring her, even though your fingers are going numb.

“Your loss.” He leans down and you try not to think about what he’s doing too much. “I’m not seeing anything yet, Slick. Keep going.”

“What do you fucking mean you don’t see anything?” she snarls when the worst of the contraction fades. “How can you not see anything?”

“I mean it’s not crowning, so you need to keep going,” Kuni says. She whines, unintelligible, when another contraction hits right on the heels of the last one. “Push, come on.”

“Fuck that clock,” she almost squeaks, her whole body tensed. “I don’t want to know.”

“You’re doing great, just forget the clock,” you tell her. You are trying to focus on her face, because the minute you look below her shoulders you freak out a little and get dizzy. “Just keep going.”

“I’m so hot,” she gasps. “Fuck you for turning the heat up, Droog.”

“Would you stop blaming me for everything?” Droog sighed, ensuring that she well and truly was relaxing for a minute before leaving her side and solemnly cracking the face of the clock and pulling the hands off it. “No one turned the heat up, Jesus.”

“Love me a little hospital vandalism,” Kuni snickered. “Hide the fucking parts, Year Two, and then we can make the nurses find them later.”

You look to the two medical aficionados and try not to snap at them. “Can we focus on the part of this that involves an infant?”

“Eh, he’s fine. She. Whatever.” Kuni looks pensive while he palpates something. You really try very hard not to think about it too much. “Just chilling in the birth canal.”

Slick’s got a look that suggests she might try to murder the three of you in a minute, labor or not. “Just,” she growls slowly, “ _chilling_?” And then she gets this look like she’s possessed and you almost want to try to pull your hand away, except that you are sure that would be a terrible idea at this moment. Kuni smirks and shakes his head.

“Wait for the contraction, honey, you’ll get nowhere on your own. Can’t have you wearing yourself out.” She tries to kick him and he deflects, laughing now.

“Don’t fucking call me honey.” You have to agree with her. She doesn’t even let you call her that. The closest to pet names the two of you have between you is she calls you Pissy sometimes, and you can call her by her first name. You kind of wish you had a better pet name than Pissy, but you figure that’s something you can work on later.

“Oh fuck,” she gasps, and then she contorts again.

“You’re doing great,” you keep saying.

You’re not sure how long it goes on for, now that the clock’s broken. You catch Droog checking his watch once or twice, but he doesn’t seem to think anything of it, as far as you can tell. Which, admittedly, isn’t very far: the man’s totally indecipherable to you most of the time. To you, it feels like forever.

You’re pretty sure it feels a lot longer than that for Slick. She’s getting tired now, and Kuni had to yell at her last contraction to get her to push at all. You think she might be sleeping in between, because she just lays there so still and quiet, and then you or Droog or Kuni shake her or say something and she bears down with whatever her body’s doing, and slumps back.

“I can’t do this,” she mumbles, panting and tired. “I give up. I can’t … This is too hard.” She squeezes her eyes shut, against pain or maybe frustration, and tries to push through the next contraction. “This hurts so fucking much. I can’t do this.”

“Spades Slick,” Dr. Kuni looks up sharply, and his voice is stern and quiet. “You _can_ do this, and you’ve only got a little bit left to go, alright? Then you can sleep all you like but for right now, you have to push.” She just whimpers. “ _Now_.”

You feel her hand clench around yours again with more strength than she’d been managing, and she blinks at the end. “Why’s it hurting worse?”

“Because the head’s right here,” Kuni said. “You’re so close, one or two more.” He looked up to Droog. “Hemostats, Year Two.”

She looks stunned. “Really?”

“ _Yes,_ really, I told you you were doing fine, Jesus. Hang with me, alright?”

She nods, and then when the next contraction hits you can tell she’s got some kind of new energy, and you’re fucked if you know where she’s getting it from. If it were you, you would have passed out a while ago.

She whines, loud, and takes a breath, and then rides straight into the next contraction. Kuni and Droog are doing something medical, you don’t even want to know, and then Kuni says something about one more push which you totally miss because suddenly Droog’s got gloves on and he’s clamping a cord on an actual infant.

“I’m gonna pass out,” you say, and Slick releases your long-numb hand and seizes your tie.

“You _will not_.”

“It’s a girl,” Kuni says, as he and Droog give the thing – her, it’s a her – a quick once-over and the baby wails with the ungodly indignant sound of the newborn. Then Droog hands it to Slick. She looks positively dumbfounded.

“Oh Jesus,” she says, and then she releases your tie and it’s like you, and Kuni, and Droog all cease to exist for that moment. She reaches for the baby, brushing her fingertips across her face, while the little thing cries and makes weird little noises you’ve never heard before and squirms around in the blanket. “Hi,” she says, and you’re amazed she even managed to think of that, because you’d be doing a lot worse.

“Sleuth,” Kuni says, and you can almost not tear yourself away. He nods to the baby, because his hands are busy doing something to Slick’s belly. “Like we talked about – take her over there, dry her off, get the new blanket on her, alright? Keep her _warm_.”

“Right,” you manage, like someone else is operating your vocal chords for you. You reach down for the baby and for a second you’re afraid Slick’s going to bite your hand off, but Kuni does something and she blanches and you gently lift the little girl from her arms.

She’s beautiful, you think, even though she’s undeniably ugly. All new babies are. She’s got a tuft of dark hair and when you can see her eyes they’re bluish green. You carry her over to the warming bed and dry her off and get her as clean as you can like you’re in a daze. Behind you, Slick and Kuni are arguing about something.

She gets prettier the longer she’s here. Kuni prepped you for this, and you’re glad, because otherwise you’d be too busy staring at your daughter to do anything useful. You grab a diaper and put it on – you’d practiced this with the stuffed animals at home, not that Slick ever knew or you’d ever admit it to her – and then swaddle the baby up as tightly as you dare. “Like a b-burrito,” PI had told you one afternoon, when you’d been picking his brain about the care of infants. You’d just stared at him, because you’d suddenly lost your appetite for lunch. Or burritos ever again, for that matter.

And then you pick her back up, because she’s quieted and you can’t imagine just leaving her there in the warmer indefinitely while you walk away to see what the hell is going on with the second one. “What’s going on?” you ask Droog, because of the three options he the only one that’s not screaming at either of the others.

“Kuni tried a version, but he’s not sure it worked.” He smirked at Slick. “And she’s out of patience.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Between the two? Twelve minutes so far.” He looks down at your daughter, and his expression steadfastly does not change at all. “That’s a baby.”

“Good call,” you say, torn between watching your girlfriend and keeping the baby away from her at all costs. You are pretty sure infants are not learning language at this point, but you’d hate to be wrong.

“This one’s gonna be easier,” Dr. Kuni said. “A lot easier. Alright? You having contractions yet?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, would you give it a goddamn rest,” she snaps. “I’ll fucking tell you, it’s not like I’m gonna miss the pieces of shit.” She looks over to you and for the first time ever, you see her smile like an idiot.

“Everything looks fine,” you say, weakly, shrugging. “I mean, as far as I can tell. I’m not a doctor.”

“I’ll get to her when I have a minute, Christ.” Dr. Kuni is feeling around on Slick’s belly, frowning. “I can’t tell. It’s not transverse, but beyond that I got nothing.”

“I want to hold her,” Slick says, ignoring him.

“You’re kinda busy …” you start, but she gives you a look you didn’t even know she had and you hand over the baby without another word. “She looks like you,” you hazard, when you think Slick’s had enough time to stare at her baby.

“Her name’s Kanaya,” she decides, and you start beaming. You picked that one – you weren’t sure what it meant, but you’d had a friend in college named Kanaya and she was the most patient, wonderful woman you’d ever met.

Slick seems perfectly happy to hold her and wait indefinitely, but then you see the same change cross her face again, and you pick the first baby up. “Finally,” Dr. Kuni mumbles, and you’re aware that it’s dark outside now. “Droog, get ready, second ones are always quick.”

Kanaya whimpers and you do what you can to quiet her, holding her close and keeping her warm. You stand on Slick’s right with the baby, so she can see you, not that she cares very much right now. She grunts and Kuni makes a noise like ‘hm’.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Slick asks, when the first contraction passes.

“Complete breech.” Kuni frowns for a minute and then shrugs. “Long as the cord stays outta here we should be fine.” He pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and looks to Slick. “One or two pushes, honestly. Doesn’t take much.” He glances to Droog. “Same thing again this time, Year Two, and then you’re gonna take this baby while I finish up here. I can talk you through the initial exam for both of ‘em.”

You wish there were more people in here – it doesn’t seem as though the three of you are enough. But Kuni seems to be doing fine, and turns out Droog has hidden depths when it comes to delivering babies, even though you’re sure he’s going to give everyone shit about his suit later. You look to Slick, and she looks totally exhausted.

“Can you imagine if it were triplets?” you ask.

“Fuck off and die,” she replies, breathless and half-hearted. “Two more pushes, right, Kuni? You promised.”

“I never did.”

“Well shit, if it’s more than two I’m gonna kill you anyway.” This time you see the contraction before it really starts in earnest, and you think she feels it a long way ahead too, because by the time it peaks she’s pushing hard and Kuni is holding something gently.

“You gotta push, Slick, we can’t wait too long here, alright?” She nods, and then half-tries to sit up and another contraction rocks her – the last one, God you hope for her sake it’s the last one – and Kuni snaps something at Droog and there’s the second baby, a little more bruised and a little smaller, on the blanket and getting dried off. Droog catches you looking and smirks.

“Boy,” he says.

You sit down this time, because you really do think you’re going to pass out.

-()-

Your name is Spades Slick, and you are more tired than you have ever been in your entire life, and that is including that time in college when you and Droog made a bet to see who could stay up longer. You won, after three and a half days, with the blessings of energy drinks and coffee, but it wasn’t fun. Somehow, even though you feel like you can barely move, this is better.

Your babies – the little monsters that made the last nine months of your life a living hell – are healthy, and fine, if a little bruised and small. They are doing the kinds of things you assume babies do, like eating and crying and sleeping and making little noises that inexplicably make your heart race with something like stupid, unconditional affection. You were too tired to hold both at once, so you and Sleuth traded off for a while, after Dr. Kuni declared you fit enough to move to a different room in the hospital with a fresh bed and one tenacious nurse who can give as good as she gets.

Now it’s late though, or maybe early; you’re not really sure. Sleuth has put the little girl down to sleep, and he’s lifting the boy – Karkat, which was a name you picked, because it sounds sharp and spiky and you still haven’t forgiven him for kicking as much as he did – out of your arms and setting him down in the plastic crib the hospital gave you. You think it looks like a modified Tupperware storage bin, and you told the nurse as much. She rolled her eyes and assured you it was a top of the line storage bin; only the finest at Midnight City General.

Then Sleuth drops into the plastic-covered recliner next to the bed and leans back. He looks stupid – no change there then – but happy and exhausted, too, when he looks over at you, laying on your side and watching the Tupperware crib like a hawk. “How are you?” You go to answer, but then you yawn, and he laughs. “That was …” he shakes his head. “Incredible.”

“You’d better fucking remember it,” you say, eyes only half-open, “’cause it sure as hell is never happening again.”

“I don’t think I’ll forget,” he assures you, reaching out and running his fingers through your hair. Your eyes drift close with the touch, but you force them back open. You’re not sure how they expect you to sleep now that you have two helpless little things to watch.

Sleuth catches where you’re looking, and pulls the wheeled bin closer, between the bed and the chair. “Better?” he asks.

“Still have to watch ‘em,” you say, but it comes out a little garbled because your body – which you’ve learned through this whole experience is a giant insubordinate traitor to your mind – apparently has decided you’re going to sleep.

Sleuth grabs your hand and chuckles. “Just sleep. I’ll stay awake, alright? Promise.”

“If I wake up and you’re sleeping –” you yawn again, and you have a hard time opening your eyes after this one “– God alone have mercy on you, Problem Sleuth.”

The nurse leans in, clipboard in hand, and raises an eyebrow. “Night check,” she explains, making a note on the chart. “You four alright?”

“Fine,” Sleuth says, as he settles back in the chair, hands folded on his stomach. “All good.”

The nurse nods and then smirks at you, when you manage to look away from the two in the crib. “You oughta get some sleep,” she snickers, before turning and walking out of the room. “While you still can.”

“She has a good point,” Sleuth says. He cocks his head toward the babies. “They’re not gonna sleep forever. You should rest.”

“Okay,” you murmur, and you decide to just give in. “We’ll take it in shifts.”

You close your eyes, unfettered by the fact that in two hours Kanaya will scream, which will prompt Karkat to scream, and that you’ll complain about only sleeping for two hours. You don’t even consider that for the next six or eight months, that will pretty much be par for the course. The fact that Droog will _buy you_ under-eye concealer in five months to hide the shadows under your eyes, and that you will buy truly epic quantities of coffee, is not even a blip on your radar.

In this moment, you just fall asleep, one hand curled up under your pillow, like always, and the other hooked over the edge of the crib, your fingers dangling limply half an inch away from the sleeping blanket-wrapped bundle that is your ­­– _your,_ and you can use that word indisputably – son. Right before sleep takes you, he makes one of those noises, and something squirms in your chest even though that’s impossible now, and you fall asleep with a stupid smile on your face.


End file.
